Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series

by Cathy Woodman

  Standing well back behind him, I reach out with the noose, letting it touch his nose before I slip it over his muzzle and tug it back over his ears where I secure it tight around his neck. I hang on to the pole, so that Alex can move safely round beside me. He squats down, steadies one of Arnie’s back legs and shoots a dose of anaesthetic straight into a vein.

  Gradually, Arnie stops paddling. I loosen the noose and take a couple of steps closer so I can check on his airway and reflexes. There are three stages of anaesthesia – awake, asleep and dead – and I’m praying for the second one. It looks promising: Arnie’s uppermost eye is half-closed and his tongue is slack. I bend down and . . . snap! His head flies up and he’s grabbing for me, for the pole, for anything within his reach.

  I yank at the wire, tightening the noose down hard until it’s choking him. Alex injects more anaesthetic and Arnie begins to relax again. I loosen the noose once more and gradually his tongue turns from deep purple back to pink. We watch him for a minute, maybe two, then Arnie raises his lip and his throat vibrates with a warning growl.

  ‘I’ll make damn certain he’s out for the count this time,’ Alex says, topping up the anaesthetic again.

  I really hope so, I think, counting the syringes sticking out of Alex’s back pocket, because there isn’t any more . . .

  ‘I’ll have a chat with Mr Gilbert,’ I say. ‘Send him in, will you?’

  Alex looks up at me, his eyes wide with concern. I’m not sure whether he’s being chivalrous or he thinks I’m incapable of dealing with the situation. ‘I think I should stay . . .’

  ‘I didn’t ask for your help in the first place, and I don’t need it now. Please leave.’ Alex doesn’t move and I’ve got a dog coming round on the floor, and no more anaesthetic . . . What language does he understand, I wonder? I’m obviously being far too polite. ‘Just go!’ I say in desperation. ‘Get the hell out of my consulting room!’

  ‘Is he still here?’ I ask Frances once I’ve brought the Arnie Gilbert episode to a conclusion.

  ‘If you mean Alex, he’s out the back.’

  ‘What did you let him go out there for?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Frances says. ‘Izzy showed him through.’

  ‘Oh, fantastic.’ I stomp off down the corridor, following the scent of hot damp cotton to where Izzy is unloading sterilised drapes from the autoclave. Emma would go ballistic if she knew a Fox-Gifford was snooping around her practice. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘That way.’ Izzy points to the door into the operating theatre. ‘I wouldn’t —’

  I shove the door open.

  ‘Too late,’ she sighs.

  There in front of me is Alex Fox-Gifford, trousers in one hand, needle and nylon thread from one of the suture dispensers in the other.

  ‘Oh, er, sorry.’ Embarrassed, I start backing out, then change my mind. What have I got to apologise for? I’m allowed to be here.

  ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ Alex looks at me, one eyebrow raised, his expression quizzical as he stares at me. ‘It is you.’ He grins. ‘I don’t believe it, you’re the bog-snorkeller?’

  I can’t deny it. Suddenly it seems extraordinarily hot, and it isn’t just because Izzy has left the autoclave open next door.

  Alex sticks the needle into the fabric of his trousers, then holds out his hand to shake mine. ‘I’m sorry I was sharp with you the other day.’

  I hesitate, but his grip is firm and confident. His fingers are stained purple, his nails cut short but engrained with mud – no, blood. Definitely blood.

  ‘I was angry with myself for letting the horse get the upper hand and spin away like that. I didn’t have enough leg, as my mother would say.’

  I can’t stop my eyes drifting downwards. He has more than enough leg in my opinion. There is a small puncture wound on the inside of his thigh and, oh my God, he’s wearing a contour-enhancing pair of pants, red ones with a logo reading ‘Superdad’. Superdad? It hadn’t occurred to me that this man might have kids. I force myself to look up to where his shirt has fallen away at the base of his neck, revealing the line of his collarbone and a smattering of dark hairs on his chest, and try to focus my gaze on the tufts of white thread which are all that remain of the top two buttons.

  ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asks.

  ‘In the freezer. It wasn’t a difficult decision.’ It seems a pity to have had to put down such a young dog, a much-loved family friend, and kill off one of the patients Emma has registered at Otter House, but I had no choice.

  ‘Another fit like that, and he could have killed someone,’ Alex agrees. ‘I wasn’t trying to take over before, you know.’ He stops studying the tear in his trousers and looks up at me, his eyes wide and appealing for forgiveness, and I find my resolve to hate him because of who he is and what he’s done in the past to Emma thawing slightly. ‘I didn’t want anyone getting hurt.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say quietly, and then he has to go and wreck the beginnings of what could eventually become a frost-free relationship between the two practices in Talyton by holding up his trousers and asking me, ‘What stitch do you think I should use?’

  ‘I hope you’re not asking that because I’m a girl,’ I say, outraged.

  A flush spreads up his neck and covers his cheeks like a rash. I’ve obviously hit a nerve.

  ‘I didn’t mean that at all. I’m not like that. I might be a bastard sometimes, but I’m not a sexist bastard.’ He ties a knot in the end of the nylon and starts sewing furiously, running a continuous suture from one end of the tear to the other, then tying it off. ‘Could I possibly borrow a pair of scissors, please?’ he adds.

  ‘If you must.’ I dart out to the prep room and take a pair from beside the sink. When I return, Alex holds the thread up and I snip.

  ‘Thank you, nurse,’ he says, and when I respond with a glare he gazes at me, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Lighten up, will you – that was a joke. The responsibility of looking after Otter House must be getting to you, or are you always so fierce?’

  Maybe I’m looking fierce because I’m trying not to think about kissing those beautiful lips . . . I can’t believe I’m even thinking such a thing when I am so, most definitely, off men.

  When I caught Mike and his ex-wife – in our bed – it was like receiving a shot of a particularly nasty virus. It laid me low, but in the process triggered protection against further attack. I became immune to men. At least, I thought I did.

  Alex gets back into his trousers, which makes conversation a little easier.

  ‘You haven’t told me why you’re here,’ I say. ‘How come you turned up when you did?’

  ‘Well, I’m not here to spy on you,’ Alex says lightly. ‘No, my father mentioned that you’d phoned for Cheryl Thorne’s records. I thought I’d drop them in as I was passing.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Thank you.’

  ‘You know I’ve never had the guided tour,’ he says, tilting his head. ‘Emma’s never offered.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ I say bluntly. ‘I can’t imagine she likes the idea of you snooping around her business.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ Alex says. ‘My father’s been a pain in the backside ever since he found out she was setting up in practice in Talyton St George. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s plotting something right now. I promise you though, Maz, all the aggravation Emma’s had has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You could have had a word with your father, asked him to back off.’

  ‘Ah, you haven’t met him yet, have you?’ Alex smiles – fondly, I think. ‘He’s a bit of a tyrant.’

  ‘We’ve spoken on the phone,’ I say.

  ‘So you know what he’s like then.’ Alex pauses. ‘About this tour?’

  ‘All right,’ I say, finding myself softening towards him once more on discovering he isn’t quite as bad as Emma makes out, and pleased to have the opportunity to show off her fantastic practice to another vet.

  I start exactly where we are, in the state-
of-the-art operating theatre. I show Alex the piped-oxygen installation, wall-mounted anaesthetic machine and the scavenging system which removes waste gases from the atmosphere. I demonstrate the heated operating table and pulse oximeter. (Think Monty Python and the machine that goes ping.)

  ‘I prefer to do my bitch spays on the kitchen table,’ Alex remarks.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Without anaesthetic. It keeps the costs down.’

  I shake my head. I hope he’s pulling my leg.

  ‘How much do you charge for a bitch spay?’ he goes on.

  ‘I’m not telling you that.’ In spite of myself, I’m smiling. ‘You’ll only go and undercut us.’

  ‘I can always ring up and find out – Frances will tell me.’ Alex laughs. ‘Maz, I’m teasing you. I’ve dragged my practice out of the Dark Ages, against my father’s resistance, particularly regarding the expense. There are people in Talyton who still practise the dark arts though. There’s Mrs Wall, for example, who wishes warts away. One or two of my farmers swear by her – it’s cheaper than calling a vet out. All it costs is the price of a phone call, less if you go and see her face to face.’

  ‘Do you have to take the cow with you?’ I have to ask.

  ‘No, it’s far more convenient than that. You just have to describe the size and position of the wart,’ Alex says, deadpan. ‘Apparently, it works for humans too.’

  I try hard not to giggle at the thought, but I fail. Alex looks at me, bemused.

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to show me, Maz?’

  ‘Er, Kennels. This way,’ I say quickly, but before we can continue, Frances calls us through to Reception where she’s laid out a tray with mugs of tea, Cheryl’s Belgian buns and a few Jammie Dodgers.

  ‘It’s my emergency treatment for vets,’ she says happily when Alex thanks her. ‘I always keep a supply of biscuits tucked away.’

  ‘So, Frances,’ Alex begins, ‘is the grass really greener on the other side of the fence?’

  ‘It’s patchy,’ she says with neither tact nor diplomacy, which makes me cringe because she sounds as if she’s being disloyal to Emma. ‘I’m paid on time and I don’t have to dodge old Mr Fox-Gifford’s missiles any more.’

  ‘Yeah – I’m in the firing line now. Pens, phones, notebooks. If it isn’t nailed down, he throws it.’ Alex turns back to me. ‘Oh, that reminds me. I brought another set of notes along with Cheryl’s. They’re for a dog called Pippin. Mr Brown asked to change practice as well – I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Considering how Emma has described Talyton Manor Vets to me, Alex isn’t at all what I expected. He’s easy to talk to, and not without a sense of humour. He also seems remarkably chilled about handing over his clients to Otter House, and I’m not complaining. We need them – the more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned right now.

  ‘Pippin’s been on our books for a long time, but no, I wish him well.’ Alex hands me a sheaf of papers sticking out of a tatty brown envelope which he’d left on the desk at Reception when he first turned up. Thankful to have something less compelling to look at, I scan the first couple of lines of the top page. The writing is indecipherable. ‘I said I’d make an appointment for him.’

  ‘That’s a bit beyond the call of duty, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve known the Browns for some years now – the wife is housebound and he’s her full-time carer. Life isn’t easy for them. The dog suffers from bouts of diarrhoea which we’ve never got to the bottom of, so to speak. I thought perhaps someone with a fresh eye . . .’

  ‘Why don’t we do it as a second opinion?’

  ‘You’re the small-animal vet,’ Alex says, ‘and it’s easier for him to walk down here rather than drive out to us.’ He hesitates. ‘I can give you a translation, if you like – my handwriting’s rubbish.’

  ‘I’ll look at the notes later.’

  ‘You’re busy. I understand.’

  But for the empty cages in Kennels and the empty seats in Reception, I’d big it up and say, ‘Yes, can’t you see I’m rushed off my feet?’ because I don’t want the Talyton Manor Vets to know that Otter House is struggling.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll pick up soon . . .’ The way Alex holds my gaze, as if he knows exactly what’s going through my mind, makes me feel uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ he adds. ‘I was called to an emergency, switched off my phone and forgot to put the calls through to my father, not that he would have been up to a caesar on a cat, especially one of Cheryl’s precious Persians.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘The doctor’s prescribed him sleeping tablets – I’m not sure whether they’re for the pain, or for the stress he’s been under since Emma set up here.’

  ‘That was over three years ago,’ I point out.

  ‘He doesn’t forgive or forget easily.’ Alex pauses. ‘Anyway, it won’t happen again. My mother had called me out to one of her ponies, one I used to ride, in fact. He was pretty ancient.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Alex rubs the back of his neck. ‘He died. Poor old Topper.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Now I feel really bad.

  ‘You win some, you lose some,’ Alex says softly. A phone rings from his pocket. He pulls it out, checks the number on the screen and excuses himself. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you two weeks on Saturday, Maz.’

  ‘Saturday?’

  ‘At the Country Show. Emma put your name down to judge the Best Pet class with my father.’ Alex tips his head to one side, clearly amused. ‘Didn’t she mention it to you before she left?’

  She didn’t. I wonder why. There seem to be quite a few useful pieces of info she didn’t mention to me before she left.

  ‘It’s the highlight of the social calendar,’ Alex goes on. ‘Thanks for the tea, Frances. Goodbye, all.’ He heads outside, crossing the car park to his four-by-four.

  ‘Such a hero,’ Frances sighs. ‘They don’t make them like that nowadays.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ I say. ‘He shouldn’t have done what he did. There was no need.’

  Lacking any patients to see, with a heavy sigh, I idly flick through the notes Alex left. I just about had everything under control, apart from my emotions. Why does Alex Fox-Gifford’s presence disturb me so much? He isn’t my kind of man at all. He’s arrogant, pushy, well-spoken, fit . . . Stop right there, Maz Harwood. That’s enough. You’ll be falling in lust with him next, and look what happened last time you fell for someone . . .

  I force my attention back to work-related matters. Firstly, there’s the matter of the missing order – I’ve seen what you can carry out on a farm with a bottle of brandy and some baling twine, but I’m not going to make do. However, Izzy’s ahead of me. She holds the phone at arm’s length, her complexion suddenly pale beneath her freckles.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ she says. ‘They’re saying they’ve suspended deliveries to Otter House.’

  ‘Let me have a word.’ I take the phone. There’s no mistake. Emma hasn’t paid last month’s bill, or the three months before that. I don’t understand how this could have happened, but I head out the back and settle the account using my credit card.

  ‘It’s sorted,’ I tell Izzy a short while later. ‘Normal deliveries resume tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she says. ‘I thought we were going to have to cancel tomorrow’s ops.’ She hesitates, raises one eyebrow. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’ And then I realise there’s no point in trying to hide anything from Izzy – she was probably listening at the door. ‘That must have been one loose end Emma forgot to tie up before she went away.’ Privately, I find it hard to believe that it slipped her mind – there must have been reminders, warnings and a final demand.

  ‘If you speak to Nigel, he’ll reimburse you,’ Izzy says, ever practical. ‘Oh, and Freddie’s not looking so good – he’s passed a lot of blood.’

  I check up on Freddie – he utters a low groan when I mu
rmur his name. I run through the treatment we’ve given him. I wish there was something else he could have, but I’ve run out of options. I’ll give him another few hours, but if he continues to deteriorate, I’ll have to consider whether it’s fair to carry on.

  It’s pretty depressing when I’ve already had to put Arnie down today, but that’s how it goes sometimes. It can be difficult to remain positive. The best I can say about Arnie’s demise is at least it wasn’t rabies as Frances suggested, which reminds me that I need to have a word with her.

  I join her in Reception.

  ‘I know you mean well and you’re only trying to help, but you could be putting animals’ lives at risk by giving out advice and making up your own diagnoses,’ I say. If I’m honest, I’m more miffed about her undermining my authority and making me look incompetent in front of Alex Fox-Gifford.

  Frances stares at me, her mouth pursed like a cat’s bottom.

  ‘You’ll put me out of a job,’ I add, more gently.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ is all she’s willing to say on the matter. I only hope she’ll act on it. I fear there’s some truth in the proverb ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’.

  ‘Do you know anything about this Country Show?’ I ask her, changing the subject.

  ‘Of course. Everyone knows about the Show. I’ve won first prize for my chutney five years running.’ She flicks through the diary, and runs her finger down the page for a Saturday in two weeks’ time where there’s a note in Emma’s handwriting. ‘Yes, you are indeed expected. What an honour it is to be invited to judge at old Mr Fox-Gifford’s side, especially when you’ve only been in town for two minutes.’

  An honour? It’s a pretty dubious one, in my opinion, although the Country Show sounds as if it could be fun, and I’d be looking forward to it if it wasn’t for the Fox-Gifford factor.

  ‘Promise me you’ll drop in to the WI’s marquee,’ Frances says. ‘I’ll introduce you to some of our members. Don’t look so worried, Maz, they’re a friendly bunch.’